


Rest for the Weary

by aces



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Partnership, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Don’t look at me like that.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest for the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005 for two challenges on the muncle LJ community.

_Don’t look at me like that._

He could feel Napoleon’s eyes tracking him as he moved from one end of the office to the other. He could also detect the unsteadiness of his own walk, as if he were light-headed ( _he was_ ), as if his foot were asleep or he’d had a little too much to drink.

He casually put a hand out against the filing cabinet to steady himself as he opened the third drawer from the top, dropping the file folder into its correct alphabetical and subject spot. Nearly done. Soon he could go home, prop his feet up on the coffee table with a glass of something alcoholic in his hand, and fall asleep before even taking a single sip.

He shouldn’t think things like that. His body was getting ideas, and it was all he could do to keep his head up, let alone his feet on the ground and his back off it.

He rested his forehead against the filing cabinet for a moment, his eyes closing of their own accord. They weren’t focusing very well at the moment anyway, even with his glasses on. It hurt to keep them open.

He could still feel that steady brown gaze on his back.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, and only after a moment did he realize he’d said it aloud this time.

“Like what?” Napoleon said smoothly, and finally Illya felt those eyes drop, turn away. He heard a shuffle of papers and snorted silently.

“Like a vulture, waiting to swoop down the instant I fall,” he responded and forced his body into an upright position, turning away from the filing cabinet. His back protested, his eyes smarted, his brain moved with all the speed of a lazily falling snowflake.

It’d only been fifty-six hours since he last got some sleep.

“A vulture? Can’t I just be a concerned Section Chief instead?” Napoleon’s voice was light, a little hurt, but there was a hint of authority running underneath all the same. Sometimes, Napoleon had moments where he was uncannily like Mr Waverly in a way not at all similar to Mr Waverly.

“Your concern is unnecessary.” Illya tried to keep his tone dry but was fairly certain he only managed sulky. “I am almost finished here. I shall go home and go to bed after this.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” Napoleon said, and Illya glanced over to see him actually bent over a bit of paperwork, signing his name. “And just how exactly do you plan to get to this home and bed of yours?”

“I was planning to drive, unless cars are no longer allowed on New York streets. It wouldn’t surprise me if they weren’t.”

“Drive,” Napoleon repeated thoughtfully, and turned to another sheet requiring his signature. Illya found himself mesmerized by the flip of paper, the scribble of pen, and couldn’t be bothered to shake himself out of it. “Really. I find that an interesting proposition, since it currently appears you can barely hold yourself upright.” He looked up from his paperwork and met Illya’s gaze squarely. “Do you _really_ think you should be driving yourself home?”

“Then _you_ drive me home,” Illya retorted, and now he _knew_ he sounded whiny and childish. He sat down, in order to give his legs a break and gain some control over his voice, since he apparently couldn’t do both at the same time anymore. His voice was steadier, more reasonable, when he continued speaking. “Or call me a cab, if you think there’s one out there not operated by THRUSH.”

“Of course there is,” Napoleon sounded slightly surprised. “We have a couple of our own.” He signed one last paper with a flourish, shuffled the other papers together with it, and slipped them all neatly into a manila folder, which he then set aside neatly on the desk. He stood up, smoothed down his suit, and walked over to the coat hook. He slipped on his coat and turned back to his partner, who had sat watching him dully the whole time. “Get up,” he said succinctly. “I’m taking you home.”

Home. Of course. Sleep. Illya was mildly surprised to find his legs cooperating as they pushed off the chair, and he grabbed his coat on his way out the door. Napoleon walked slightly behind and to the side of him, and Illya was aware enough of this to smile acerbically.

“Still waiting to swoop?” he suggested as they entered the elevator. “It’s not fair, you know. _You_ got to sleep last night.”

“You could have,” Napoleon protested. “You chose the wrong hours to stand guard, that’s all.”

“Next time it’s your turn then.”

“Oh, I agree. You get cranky without sleep.”

“Yes, but who needs more beauty sleep?” Illya was stung into retorting. The elevator doors opened before Napoleon could reply.

They made it out of headquarters and into Napoleon’s car without incident. Illya stretched into the passenger seat and couldn’t help the tiny sigh of pleasure that escaped as the soft leather cushioned his back. He felt Napoleon’s eyes again—could feel his damnable knowing grin, too—and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t feel a need to respond verbally.

It was a struggle to open them again, but he managed it after he felt the car easing itself into the late-evening traffic, and he looked around. “This isn’t the way to my apartment,” he said after a moment of frowning concentration at landmarks and street signs. “This is the way to yours.”

“Very good, Sherlock,” Napoleon answered without looking away from the road. “I felt it was safer this way. Can’t have you stumbling on the stairs up without anyone to swoop after you if you fall, can we?”

Illya stared for a moment longer at his partner before settling his head back again and letting his eyes fall shut once more.

Twenty minutes later, Napoleon joggled his shoulder gently. “We’re here,” he said, and his voice was so nice and soft that Illya just wanted to let it wash over him in a soothing murmur. He muttered, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Illya.” His voice was still quiet, but there was a new commanding note that was harder to ignore. “Time to go upstairs.”

“Must I?” Illya sighed, and he heard Napoleon chuckle softly.

“C’mon, sleepyhead.” Napoleon opened the door. Illya sighed again and opened his eyes, pulling himself out of the car.

Napoleon kept a surreptitious hand on his back as they walked up the stairs—normally Illya would have strenuously objected, but even he admitted to himself he wasn’t the steadiest on his feet at the moment. Napoleon’s touch was a warm spot that seemed to flow out to the rest of his body. It helped wake him up a little, enough that he _didn’t_ stumble up the stairs.

Once Napoleon opened the door, Illya headed straight for the bedroom, tossing his coat over the sofa he passed and kicking off his shoes in the hallway. He shrugged out of his blazer and left that draped over a chair next to the bed, but he didn’t bother with anything else before falling—literally—onto the bed.

He heard Napoleon trip over a shoe and swear, and hid his grin in the pillow, but it faded quickly as he finally allowed his body to relax totally, and he went so limp he almost forgot to breathe. It was the most luxurious, decadent thing he could think of currently, more so than any material possession: sleep.

He vaguely heard Napoleon rustling around the room, going into the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth, coming back out to open the closet and undress. It reminded him strangely of being a child, and hearing the early-morning sounds of his mother preparing breakfast and his father muttering about the cold. It was perversely comforting.

The bed shifted, sighed, when Napoleon slipped under the covers next to him, and he heard Napoleon tsk and attempt to pull the covers out from under him so they could go _over_ him. Illya shifted a little, trying to help.

“Still awake, are you?” Napoleon asked, a thread of amusement running through his voice without any of the earlier commanding authority that would brook no argument. Now that he had Illya where he wanted him, he felt no need for it. Illya would have to discuss that with him. Someday.

“Barely,” Illya murmured into the pillow, so thickly he wasn’t even sure _he_ understood what he’d said. Napoleon seemed to understand, in any case, because he didn’t speak anymore, just pulled the covers over his partner and curled closer to him, spooning against him.

Illya felt a brush of lips against the back of his neck, and a whisper in his ear, before he succumbed entirely to sleep. “Sweet dreams, Illya.”


End file.
